


we got you

by iron_spider_suit



Series: get / got / gotten (Autistic Peter Parker) [3]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Ableism, Angst, Autistic Peter Parker, Bullying, Domestic, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Kid Peter Parker, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Sick Peter, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-16 22:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20610029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iron_spider_suit/pseuds/iron_spider_suit
Summary: Companion piece toi got youandyou got this.Third and final part of the series.A story about autistic Peter Parker and his difficulties with social communication, from different points of view.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once more, the response to this series has been beyond anything I could have imagined. I don't want to repeat myself - so I will just say _thank you_ for every kudos and every comment; they are so appreciated and mean so much, truly. 
> 
> This is the final part of this series. I hope you might enjoy it too. Thanks again!

“Pete, you OK?” May asks when she notices him squinting under the kitchen lights during dinner. She notices too that he is spreading the casserole around his plate rather than eating it, but after more than half an hour at the table, she has pretty much given up for the night. It’s late—the casserole had taken longer than she expected to cook, and the remains are now stuck to the pan, with no amount of scrubbing making a dent.

Peter nods for an answer, which isn’t all too convincing, and he feels a little warm when May tugs off the rubber gloves and touches the back of her hand to his forehead. But she lets it go, knowing how hard it can be to get a word out of Peter when he doesn’t feel like talking.

She regrets it when she wakes up a few hours later to the sound of retching. May finds him in the bathroom, on the floor, clutching the sides of the toilet bowl, face ashen and eyes bright with fever.

“Oh, sweetie.”

Peter only whimpers before doubling over to throw up again.

May tries to cool him down with a wet towel between rounds of vomiting, though he keeps shaking his head and moaning in protest, shivering in her arms. 

The shower clock that she bought for Peter a couple of months ago, when it became obvious he couldn’t keep track of time showering on his own, tells her it is two hours before he finally says a word. 

“May, don’t feel good,” he mumbles, voice hoarse, head rolling back onto her shoulder. 

In four years she has learned Peter never says anything when he doesn’t feel well, unless the right questions are asked. He won’t come to her or Ben on his own. Which had resulted in a bad case of strep throat the year before, and May only finding out about a cracked rib after a bad fall during recess when she saw the bruises during bathtime. 

She's gotten better at seeing when he is in pain, though, and she knows she has no excuse, as she had been aware something was wrong tonight. 

“I know, baby. I know.” May says in a low, soothing voice, smoothing back the sweaty hair from his forehead. She keeps the apologies to herself, because she knows it will only confuse Peter right now. 

She isn’t sure what to do. Is it bad enough for a trip to the hospital in the middle of the night? Holding Peter against her chest, she confirms she hadn’t been imagining the wheeze. Ignoring the violent shiver when she slips her hand under his night shirt, she places a hand on his side and waits for the next hitch in his breathing—she can feel the tell tale muscle retractions that signal Peter’s asthma is acting up too on top of it all. 

“Shit.”

He throws up again, though nothing more than bile comes up, when she tries to have him use his inhaler. And the wheezing only gets worse when he starts sobbing weakly, overwhelmed, face buried in his arms on the side of the tub. 

May doesn’t give it another thought, as she hurries to throw on some jeans and shoes, but doesn’t bother with socks or changing out of the old, worn tee shirt she sleeps in. She finds some thick socks for Peter, and bundles him up in his coat.

It’s four stories down to the car taking most of Peter’s weight, but he is still small and light, and May is fuelled with adrenaline. When he lets out a quiet, pained sound as she helps him onto his booster seat, however, her hands start shaking so much it takes her two tries to fasten the seat belt.

They are in the waiting room for what feels like an age, Peter slumped against her in his seat, breathing strained and his hand clammy in her own tight, terrified grip. She leaves Ben a message on his phone, all too aware of the waver in her voice. But they have never had to rush to the ER in the middle of the night, and May feels very much alone and scared.

Finally, a nurse comes to get them, guides them down a corridor to a curtained area with an examination table, a medical cart with supplies, and a couple of stools. 

The doctor, a young man, greets them with a kind, tired smile, introducing himself as Doctor Thompson. He motions for May to take a seat, while a nurse brings a step stool for Peter to get onto the exam table. He perches on it, hunched over, one arm over his stomach, and the other twisting a string of his coat over and over around his fingers.

“So, what seems to be the problem?” Doctor Thompson asks. 

May explains as best she can, forcing calm into her voice. It feels like another life now, dinner time, and Peter a little warm and quiet but still OK. 

The doctor turns to Peter with a pulse oximeter in hand. “Hey, bud. Not feeling too hot, are you?”

Peter shakes his head, even though he doesn’t quite look at him. “I‘m cold,” he admits in a whisper. 

May notices the doctor’s pause at the answer, but he recovers quickly. “Yeah, your aunt says you’re running a fever. We’re gonna have a look at that. But let’s see what your oxygen levels are looking like first, hm? With this little thing. It goes on your finger.” He wiggles his own fingers, then holds out the pulse oximeter expectantly. 

Peter takes a moment, but finally lets go of the string so the doctor can clip it onto his finger. 

The doctor examines his hand as it takes the reading, holds two fingers to his wrist before palpating his throat. “How did this all start?” he continues, turning around to take the electronic thermometer from the nurse. “Walk me through it.” 

Peter frowns a little, chewing on his lip, looking lost as the doctor holds the thermometer to his ear.

“Kid?” he prompts when the thermometer beeps. 

Peter glances at May while the doctor hands the thermometer back to the nurse. She knows that look: Peter struggles with vague questions like that, and it’s worse when he’s sick or in pain.

“You have to break it down for him. He—” She can’t help the frustrated noise when the doctor looks at her blankly. “Did you feel feverish before dinner time tonight, Pete?” she asks, demonstrating rather than trying to explain.

Wrapping both arms around himself again, Peter nods. “T-this morning, at school? The n-nurse gave me paracetamol,” he answers followed by a whistling inhale as he struggles to catch his breath.

May scowls at that—nobody at school had notified her. 

“What about the stomach pain—can you tell me how bad it is, on a scale from 1 to 10?” Doctor Thompson takes over, pulling the stethoscope from around his neck. 

Peter curls in on himself even more. “I-I don’t…”

After a minute, the doctor changes tactics. “Alright, can you tell me how _long _it’s been hurting?”

“It started t-to hurt after lunch, so t-twelve hours?” he stutters.

May pinches the bridge of her nose. Twelve hours, and she hadn’t even had a clue.

“And the pain, it’s been keeping you from walking around? Sleeping?”

Peter answers with a small nod to both. 

“Alright. The asthma only started up a few hours ago, though, you said?” Thompson asks May, who can only nod wearily in response. “Alright, buddy, let’s have a proper look at you, and see what’s wrong, OK?”

At that moment, May’s phone vibrates in her purse. “Peter, you’re going to need to take off your coat, sweetie,” she says automatically, distracted as she fishes her phone out of her purse. She can’t help the rush of relief when she sees it’s Ben calling at last. “I’ll be right back,” she tells the doctor and nurse, already stepping outside the curtain.

“May, what’s wrong with Peter?”

“I don’t know. The doctor is seeing him. We’re still in the screening phase. Where are you?” May lowers her voice, taking in a shaky breath. “I’m freaking out, Ben.”

“I’ll be there in a minute. I’ll find you, don’t worry. Hold on, honey.”

After a couple of deep breaths, May goes back behind the curtain. 

They haven’t made any progress beyond getting Peter out of his coat and taking his blood pressure. Sitting up in his long sleeved sleeping shirt, May notices how stiff he holds himself when the doctor slips the stethoscope under his shirt to listen to his chest.

She attributes it to the cold, or the pain in his stomach—until he’s asked to lie down, and he tenses weirdly. 

“I know it hurts. But I’m afraid we’ve got to do this,” Doctor Thompson says patiently. “It’ll be quick, though. Promise.”

Hands balled into fists, Peter lies down. 

“There we go.”

Standing at the feet of the examination table, May catches the flinch when the doctor lifts his shirt. She squeezes his ankle comfortingly—absently, not thinking any more of it than that he’s nervous and in pain.

But when the doctor makes to pull his pajama pants down a little in order to palpate his stomach, Peter bats his hand away weakly and abruptly starts crying. “No, no. I don't want to, please.”

May stares in shock for a long moment, before she can push past the horror as she realises what is going on, and rush to comfort him. “Baby, he just wants to check your tummy to see why it hurts,” she assures him, a sob building in her throat. 

“Buddy, I need to feel to find out what’s wrong.” The doctor tries again, but Peter scrambles to get away, sitting up, the paper sheet on the table shifting and wrinkling under his frantic movement. 

“Don’t, please, no, no.” 

Doctor Thompson steps back, exchanging a look with the nurse. “We can't help him until he calms down,” he says neutrally.

Peter holds himself up on trembling arms, knees drawn up defensively, and his breath coming in hiccupping, wet gasps. 

May can’t do anything but stare at him—stricken at the sight of her nine year old having a breakdown over an innocent touch.

It’s at that moment that Ben comes in, out of breath, coatless and perspiring in his uniform. He had found them, like he said. 

“What’s going on?” 

May’s tongue unsticks from the roof of her mouth. “He won’t.. he won’t let the doctor examine him.”

Peter turns wide eyes toward his uncle, then dissolves into a fresh round of sobs. Still panting from the run, Ben stands frozen for a long moment, before jerking into movement, approaching Peter cautiously.

“Pete, listen to me. May and I are right here. We’re right here, kiddo. And I know you're scared, but I promise it's going to be OK.”

Peter lets out a quiet whimper, tears still running down his cheeks.

“No one’s going to hurt you, Pete. The doctor just wants to help.”

After a minute, Peter slowly lowers himself down onto the table again. Watching him lie rigid with his head turned to the side, jaw tight and eyes faraway—the only thing that keeps May from freaking out is Ben finding her hand and holding tight.

She knows the doctor is quick, but it seems to take forever before it is done. Peter has to be calmed down again when they take him down for a scan, even though it doesn’t mean anyone touching him anymore. And by the time a nurse wheels him to a box to spend the rest of the night under observation, May is barely holding on, even with Ben at her side. 

The doctor takes them aside to explain it doesn’t appear to be anything more than a viral illness, after all, requiring nothing more than treating the dehydration and low blood pressure, and watching him for a few hours to make sure his fever goes down.

After delivering the diagnosis and treatment plan, Doctor Thompson studies them with a critical eye, all signs of tiredness disappearing suddenly to be replaced by something sharp and resolute. 

“Now, I’m going to give you a chance to explain what happened with Peter before I send for the social worker on call to look into it,” he says, voice grim.

Ben has always been good with words, and he remains level and calm as he explains about Skip, while May swallows the bile that rises to the back of her throat. 

“It wasn’t even five months ago,” Ben repeats, faltering at last. 

The doctor swears under his breath,but quickly regains his composure. “I don’t mean to be rude, but if it’s… this bad, this is something that needs to be mentioned from the start. I know it must be hard to talk about, but we can’t give Peter the best treatment unless we know what’s going on.” 

“I didn’t—” May shakes her head, rubs between her eyebrows where a headache has been building. “I didn’t know he’d react like that.”

“That goes for his difficulties with the questions too. We have protocols to make things easier for patients with special needs,” he says gently.

Ben stiffens next to her, but she nods and thanks the doctor before he can argue. Doctor Thompson gives her shoulder a squeeze with a grimace, then leads them to Peter. 

They treat his asthma with a nebulizer for a short while, then exchange the mask for a nasal cannula to keep his oxygen saturation levels up. Once they have the asthma under control, Ben leaves to find them some coffee so they can hold out until Peter is discharged. 

Peter clings to May for a bit but soon starts fidgeting with the IV tube and the catheter on his arm. 

“Peter, you need to stop,” May has to tell him finally, using a sterner tone than she normally would, but she is at the edge of her rope. 

Though Peter stops immediately, after a minute he starts biting at his thumb nail and knuckle instead. She doesn’t miss the low whine of distress. The hospital is loud despite the hour, and the whole floor is lit with fluorescent lights—and May knows where this is headed, but she doesn’t know what she can do about it in a public setting like this. Peter’s therapist had explained how the fidgeting—stimming, she called it—could help, however. So although her instinct is to put a stop to it, she forces herself to leave him to it. Swallows the discomfort when the nurse who comes in to check his IV stares at Peter, and glares at her retreating back. 

She is taken aback when the same nurse returns a few minutes later with a pair of ear plugs. 

“We use these for the MRI machine, because it’s very loud,” she explains, addressing Peter. “And we can at least get rid of this light.” Flipping a switch, she turns off the bar of light just above Peter’s bed. 

Peter, who hasn’t said a word since the scan, lowers his hand to his lap and voices a quiet thank you, round eyed. 

The nurse gives him a soft smile. “You’re very welcome, darling.” She turns to May as she leaves. “It’s OK to ask, you know?” she tells her in a low voice.

May isn’t sure if it’s meant as an accusation or a reassurance, but the knowledge that it hadn’t even crossed her mind to ask, had done nothing but sit back and let Peter deal with it as best he could, makes her stomach knot. 

Ben comes back soon enough with a steaming travel mug of coffee for her. Gets it through into the observation area thanks to his uniform, probably. 

For all that he resists any diagnosis, it’s instinctive for him. It doesn’t take him more than a minute to give Peter his watch to play with, helping ease his anxiety. Peter fastens it open and shut, and feels out the metal links in a repetitive motion as his eyelids start drooping. 

May’s cup still holds a bit of warmth when Peter falls asleep, overcome with exhaustion. May waits until she is sure he won’t wake up, before using the excuse of throwing out the cup to take a breather. The excuse is for her—she isn’t fooling Ben.

The sky is lightening and frost in the air, but there is no shortage of people to ask for a cigarette. A woman in scrubs who looks about her age lights one for her, and they stand side by side against the wall, looking to avoid the worst of the cold wind.

“Please ask,” May speaks up after a minute, when she catches the woman glancing at her again. None of her close friends have kids. and the mothers at school… she can’t imagine they have the same experience at all. May feels like she might explode sometimes, without anyone to talk to but Ben. 

“Rough night?” The doctor, May guesses, asks wryly.

May exhales noisily. “You have no idea.” Except—“It’s not even a big deal,” she admits. “Just a bug that hit a little harder than usual.”

“Kid?”

“Yeah.”

The doctor gives a slight shrug. “Seeing your kid sick is always tough.”

May gives a shaky nod. That had been bad enough, seeing Peter feeling so miserable. But it’s more than that. “He wouldn't let the doctor touch him. And he hasn’t said more than two words in, like, three hours. Which isn’t that uncommon, but—Fuck.” The words burst out of her. “And I don't know how to help him. I don't know if there's even anything to be done,” she cries out, voice shaking. May takes a long drag of her cigarette, holds it until her lungs burn. “I just want things to be easier for him.”

She can’t stop thinking about what the doctor had said: if it’s this bad. These last months hadn’t been easy, but she hadn’t known it was so bad. And the 'special needs' comment keeps playing in a loop in her head too. Peter is just… Peter to her. Different. But labelling it seems so final, so weighty, if that’s what it’s going to mean for everyone around him. She understands in that moment more than ever why Ben resists the diagnosis the therapist had given them.

The doctor offers her a sympathetic look, though May knows she can’t possibly understand, without any context. “It’ll all look better in the morning. I promise.”

May’s smile is rueful. “It's not going to go away in the night.”

“No, but it won't seem as awful. I assure you.”

May sighs, and nods. 

“I have to go back in.” The doctor hands her another cigarette. “Take care.”

Peter doesn’t throw up again, and they stop the oxygen after another hour. His eyes are clearer when he wakes up, and he starts talking again when they bring him breakfast. He smiles at the hospital aide, and prattles on about how much he loves jello; asks the woman what her favorite flavor of jello is too, earning himself a good natured chuckle. 

May starts to feel like she can really breathe again.

When they get home, she changes Peter’s sheets and sets out a new pair of pajamas for him while he showers. Tonight wasn’t serious, but May still feels her failure. Peter might not say anything when he’s hurting, but she is still supposed to know, isn’t she? Mothers are supposed to know. 

“I’m sorry, May,” Peter whispers when she tucks him in. 

“You’re not allowed to be sorry for getting sick, Peter.” May is tired, and it comes out too sharp for Peter to understand it as a joke. He wilts in response, and May thinks she might actually start crying soon. 

Ben catches on to her mood immediately as he comes in with tea. He strokes a hand down her back as he hands Peter the mug. “Alright, drink and then sleep, kiddo.”

“Thanks, Uncle Ben.” Peter sips at the tea, and May leans back against Ben, wrung out. When he’s done, May slips the koala bear plush into his arms, and presses a kiss to his forehead—it’s cool. “I love you, baby,” she says, fervent and honest. She loves him so much it hurts, sometimes. 

Ben kisses the top of Peter head. “Love you, Pete. If you start feeling sick again, you come get us, OK?”

Once in their bedroom, a slightly hysterical chuckle escapes May. 

“It’s stupid, but I think this might up there with one of the worst nights of my life.”

Ben simply pulls her into a hug. They stand locked in an embrace for a long moment. 

She isn’t expecting his next words: “I want to kill him, May.”

“What?” she asks, then realises a second later—_Skip._

“He'll be out in a few of years, and meanwhile our kid is afraid of a doctor touching him. It’s not right.” His voice is rough, contained. His shoulders droop suddenly. “And it was my fault. I let it happen.”

‘No’ is all May can say, shaking his head. She doesn’t have any energy left for more than that and tightening her arms around him. "No."

Ben sighs into her hair. 


	2. Chapter 2

Ned is the sort of person to set himself small goals and build on those. Getting Peter invited to the Gamers Club movie outing had been the first one. Truth be told the reception toward the idea had been lukewarm at best—after all, Peter isn’t part of the club, and in their eighteen months as friends Ned still hasn’t been able to get Peter interested in playing video games at all—but a number of crushing wins on Avenging Soul battles had finally got the group to agree. 

Ned was optimistic they would get along, despite that crucial obstacle, and the trip to the movies had seemed like a good chance to bring them together. 

His second goal is actually getting the gamers and Peter to hit it off. It’s proving harder than he thought.

Standing in a huddle on the train with a group of kids rather than sitting down with his mum, feels very grown up, like they’re proper teenagers rather than still technically tweens—the novelty of going out on his own with friends hasn’t worn off yet, although this is his fifth time. He isn't sure Peter finds it quite as exciting, however. Leaning against the wall, fidgeting with the zipper on the cuff of his jacket, he keeps his eyes on the people coming and going from their train car, while the rest of them lose themselves in a conversation about the newest Call of Duty game. 

Ned tries to steer the conversation to something other than video games so Peter can join in—but it_ is_ a group of Gamer Club boys. And it doesn’t help that Peter naturally tends to gravitate to the edge of groups as it is. Sometimes literally. Ned had almost lost him earlier on their way to the subway from Ned’s apartment, when he had lagged behind in order to give a family directions. Peter has a ridiculous good memory for streets and stellar spatial orientation, and Ned is more likely to get lost in the city than him. But Peter loses track of time and gets distracted easily, and ‘stranger danger’ just isn’t a thing for him—Ned had once had to drag him away from helping a man who had dropped his keys under a suspicious van in front of the school. So Ned worried. And while he hadn't _promised_, he had told May he'd watch out for Peter, who was out with friends on his own for the first time. 

It shouldn’t be too hard to find a good topic of conversation for a group of all nerds, but the only thing Ned can think up on the spot ends up being school. 

“Have you guys done the math exercises yet?” he asks at the first lull in the extended discussion about the new World of Warcraft.

Sergio makes a face. “I tried, but it’s impossible. It’s probably another eighth grade level one to trick us…” he mutters bitterly. 

“Peter solved it!” Ned says quickly, jumping on the chance to talk Peter up. 

Peter turns to look at them ate the sound of his name, blinking bemusedly. “What?”

“Miss Sanderson and that math problem she sent a few weeks ago, that only you solved.”

“Oh.” Peter shrugs, face pinking slightly. “That wasn’t very fair, of her, to do that.” 

Ralph and Adam, who are both top students and in Math Club, don’t seem nearly as impressed as Ned had hoped. 

“Did you get your parents to help you, or a tutor or something?” Adam challenges, eyebrows raised.

Peter shakes his head. “My parents are—I didn’t ask anyone. I don’t know if my aunt and uncle would know…” he muses. “Not that they aren’t smart, but—” 

“Right.” Boris, who Ned knows isn’t great at math, interrupts to ask with obvious intent: “What about the one she set yesterday, did you solve it? What did you get?”

Peter nods, and gives an answer which clearly doesn’t help Boris. 

Adam scoffs, and Ralph glares at Peter, arms crossed over his chest. Obviously neither of them had managed to solve it. “Miss Anderson must love you,” he says snidely. 

“I don’t think so. I’m just… doing the homework,” Peter mumbles into the collar of his jacket. 

“_Mr Dalton_ definitely doesn’t love him!” Ned blurts out. 

They all turn to him, faces twisted in confusion. Ned avoids looking at Peter. He is well aware how he feels about the incident, but Ned is convinced this will win him the others’ good graces. This is one thing he is smarter about than Peter. 

Sergio raises his eyebrows. “I think I heard something about that. Thought it was just a rumor, though.”

“No, it happened,” Ned assures him. 

“He sassed Mr Dalton?” Boris asks incredulously. 

“Yeah, it was _epic._” Ned nods emphatically. “Mr Dalton was furious.” 

“What’d you say to him?” Adam asks Peter, grinning, and Ned mentally congratulates himself. “I hate the dude.”

Peter glances at Ned dubiously. “It was a misunderstanding. I didn’t mean to embarrass him. I just—He made a mistake, in a problem, so I corrected him… and he didn’t take it well.”

“He kept insisting Peter was wrong. Peter broke it down and pointed out where he had messed up—no room for argument,” Ned elaborates. “His face went so red, you should have seen it.:

“Did you get detention?” Ralph challenges. 

Peter grimaces. “Yeah.”

“He wouldn’t apologize,” Ned supplies.

“I still don’t understand what I was supposed to apologize for; I wasn’t insulting him!” Peter protests weakly.

“Well that’s something,” Ralph comments. But they all seem underwhelmed. 

“That’s about as cool as Parker gets, I guess,” Adam mutters—audibly. 

Ned sucks in his bottom lip as he catches a glimpse of Peter’s crestfallen expression before he ducks his head. 

They all stagger as the train comes to a lurching halt. 

“We’re here,” Ralph announces, ushering them out.

Their differences are forgotten in the long while they spend discussing the movie over burgers. When the conversation shifts to the finer points about space presented in the film, however, Peter gets carried away and soon leaves them all in the dust as he starts talking theoretical physics. 

Under normal circumstances, Ned would have loved to continue that conversation, but for the sake of their social life he reins Peter in instead. 

“Sorry,” Peter apologises, when Ned tugs at the sleeve of his sweater in warning. 

As the topic changes to girls in their class, Peter goes quiet. 

Becoming engrossed in listing the many virtues of Rachel Dallas, Ned lets him be. It isn’t until the pressure in his bladder becomes impossible to ignore that he notices Peter has zoned out, his eyes fixed on an older girl sitting at a nearby table with her boyfriend. The two are acting all lovesick stupid, play fighting, pretending to dislike each other. Ned rolls his eyes at the theatrics. The girl is pretty, though, and he tells Peter as much, thinking that’s what had caught his attention. He gets an absentminded nod in response. 

“I’m going to the toilet, be right back.” 

Peter only nods again, obviously distracted. 

Ned glances back before heading down the stairs toward the toilets to see the others have leaned in to talk to Peter. It seems like an encouraging movement, and makes him wonder if maybe he just needed to take a step back and let them get to know Peter on his own for a bit. So once he does his business, he takes his time, texting his mom to tell her they are having fun, and playing a quick Tetris level on his phone. 

When he comes back out to the dining room, he immediately notices Peter isn’t at their table. It only takes him a moment to locate him: standing by the table of the older girl he had been staring at earlier, his face red. The Gamers Club are all snickering as they watch the scene play out.

“Oh my god, what’s wrong with you?” The girl is looking to cause a scene, her voice pitched to carry around the room. “We were just kidding around.” Her face twists meanly. “You creepy little snot. You think I didn’t notice you staring at me?” 

Frozen in his spot in horror, Ned sees her boyfriend approaching the table with fresh drinks. “What’s going on?” he asks, his tone more confused than hostile. But the girl is still on a roll. 

“This brat was afraid you were _bothering me_.” She mocks Peter’s low, concerned voice. Ned is familiar with it from when Peter gets anxious and earnest. It makes the boyfriend snort with laughter. 

“Yeah?”

Peter’s gone pale now, twisting his fingers nervously in front of him, he avoids eye contact. “I-I just thought—I—didn’t—” he stammers at his feet. 

The boyfriend exchanges a glance with his girlfriend, who mouths something at him. He rolls his eyes, then pulls Peter in by the collar of his shirt. Ned’s stomach flip flops—the boy is at least in his late teens, maybe older, and a lot bigger than Peter. 

“What were you going to do anyway? Fight me?” he jeers. Then gives him a light shake. “Go on, get lost, weirdo.” 

Peter stammers out something inaudible, inarticulate, and runs off. When he stops to grab his jacket on his way out, it gets tangled in a chair, which falls over with a bang. Ned flinches with him. 

Sound seems to turn on as the door closes behind him, a loud murmur rising from the whole restaurant. There’s laughter too. With the Gamers Club laughing the loudest. Adam even slaps his hand on the table, hooting. 

“Did you set him up?” Ned demands, stomping over, furious and disgusted. 

Sergio chokes on his laughter. 

Ralph doesn’t make much of an effort to bite back a grin. “Sorry, man. It was just too easy. He’s so gullible. And really bad at knowing when people are joking.” 

Boris snorts. “My seven year old brother wouldn’t fall for it.”

“So you just take advantage of that?” Shaking his head, Ned grabs his own stuff and hurries after Peter, who’s walking so fast down the sidewalk he’s almost running. 

“Peter! Peter, wait up!” Ned manages to catch up after a minute, grabs hold of his jacket and keeps a tight grip in it. He needs to take a moment to catch his breath, and it’s probably for the best, because Peter’s breathing kind of funny too, like when his asthma is starting to act up. “You need your inhaler?” he asks. 

Peter shakes his head, lips pursed. 

When Ned finally gets Peter to look at him, he can see his eyes are wet. “I’m so sorry, Peter.” 

Peter hugs himself, pressing his back up against the chain link fence behind them. “I’m so stupid,” he spits out, half a sob. “I thought—And they… they agreed she looked like she needed help. I just wanted to help, Ned.” 

“I know, bro.” Ned rubs his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be—”

His face scrunched up as he tries not to cry, Peter shakes his head again. Rather than argue, Ned just hugs him. He can’t really think of anything else to do right now. 

Peter muffles a sob against his shoulder, loops an arm around Ned for a minute, clutching at the back of his coat, before pulling back. “I’m sorry, he whispers again, wiping at his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “I ruined everything. You should go back to your friends.” 

“Peter, those assholes aren’t my friends.”

Though Ned’s an optimist at heart, he is also enough of a realist to know everyone becoming besties was a bit of a long shot—but he certainly hadn’t expected such a disastrous end. 

He feels bad for Peter, as well as disappointed in himself—that he hadn’t managed to make better friends. He doesn’t think he’ll be going back to Gamer Club. There have to be nicer people who play video games out there. “You didn’t ruin anything, OK?” he tells Peter earnestly. “Come on.” 

Linking their arms together, he starts walking them down the street. “You know what I’ve been wanting to do all day? Continue building our Enterprise model while we watch another couple episodes of the Stephen Hawking documentary.”

“Yeah?” Peter asks in a small voice, the shadow of a smile on his face.

Ned doesn’t hesitate. “One hundred percent.” 

Peter’s smile grows into something a bit more certain, if still shy. Ned isn’t expecting him to come to a sudden stop a moment later. 

“What is it?” he asks in concern.

Peter breathes out a giggle. “It’s the other way.”

Laughing, Ned turns them around. “Alright, Mr Sulu, take us home.”


	3. Chapter 3

Everyone hears about it at school. There isn’t an announcement or anything, but the news spreads: Peter Parker’s uncle was shot dead.

Peter only misses two days of school—his uncle dies on a Wednesday night, and he’s back in class on Monday. At first glance, he acts normal, the definition of carrying on as usual. He’s a little quieter, maybe. Looks a bit wan. But no one is going to bat an eyelid at that. He’s an orphan who just lost another family member.

MJ is intrigued, though—not worried. She doesn’t know Peter enough for that, really. Neither of them are exactly sociable, and from her vantage point on the outside of any social circle, she can see that for all that he appears to be a part of things—band and robotics club and Decathlon—he is alone too. Like her. 

Except for Ned. But Ned isn’t always there. And while Ned changes to fit in when Peter isn’t there, an adaptable puzzle piece, Peter doesn’t.

She finds him interesting, in spite of herself. MJ likes enigmas, and dark histories; likes to peel the fancy veneer off things and see what’s underneath, where the truth lies, all the things people like to avoid and pretend don’t exist. So often what she’s found is ugliness, darkness. But it’s different with Peter.

She had followed him once, after school, by accident at first, and then on purpose. And in that one walk saw him stop to buy a homeless man a hot dog, pick up a couple of cans and throw them in the recycling bin two streets down, and kneel down to pet a dog who walked up to him. All done casually, almost thoughtlessly. MJ had started paying more attention to him after that. 

She isn’t used to people doing things like that if it isn’t for attention.

With the death of his uncle, MJ doesn’t know what to expect. She’s been angry at life and the world for less, lashed out at everyone and shut out everything around her for less than losing both parents and an uncle.  So she is curious how it will change Peter. Curious—not worried. She has no stakes on Peter, after all. He hardly seems to know she exists. She would know, if he did—Peter stares, stutters, skips or hops in place, when something or someone interests him, MJ has observed. 

It’s better like this, though. It’s harder to observe people when you get too close. They can see you watching then, and they can hide.

Being observant has got her in trouble before—sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong, nosing and snooping around—since no one likes to be caught out when they are trying to hide something, when they think they are being clever, acting unnoticed. And no one likes to be seen without being able to prepare what they want to show. But it’s a risk MJ finds well worth taking. Easily passing unnoticed behind a book or a sketchbook, she watches to find out the truth. Knowing the truth means being safe. She doesn’t like being caught unawares. She doesn’t like to be fooled.

It’s a week before she notices anything unambiguously, undeniably wrong with Peter. She follows him to the bathroom between classes—a sheer coincidence they are both out together at the same time—and hears him crying in one of the stalls before he pulls himself together: one, two ragged gasps, followed by a mutter she can’t make out.

She notices him spacing out in class too. He’s smart enough he can still keep up, despite that, so the teachers don't notice. But MJ can tell he isn’t quite there as he picks at the skin around his nails—not distracted, not preoccupied with something else, just… not really there. One day she sees him wipe a speck of blood from his finger, smearing it over his homework.

Then one morning he doesn’t make it to class, after she had spotted him at his locker earlier, flinching as the first bell rang.

At lunch time, she tracks Ned down, stops him before he can sit down with some other friends. 

“Hey, loser.”

“Uh, hello?” Ned replies with obvious confusion. MJ has never sought him out, never spoken to him outside of Decathlon practice and being paired up in class. 

“Where’s Peter?” she asks without preamble. “He was here this morning, but didn’t show up for Physics.” 

“He wasn't feeling well,” Ned explains, expression sombre. “His aunt came to get him.”

MJ bites her lip, then forces the words out: “How’s he doing?” she asks, tone as casual as she can muster. 

Ned’s eyes narrow with vague suspicion, but he answers. “As well as can be expected, I guess. It's hard, you know.”

Without anything to say that won’t be deemed insensitive or rude, MJ turns on her heel and leaves without another word.

‘Alright then’ she hears Ned mutter behind her retreating back. 

It takes another two weeks before before the right circumstances come along for her to approach Peter. 

She hadn’t wanted to initially—what can she say that will make anything better? Comforting isn’t exactly her strong suit.  But she finds herself unable to do nothing. And seeing him sitting alone in the library, books spread around him, frowning down in concentration as he untangles his headphone cord while rocking minimally in his chair, her resolve is strengthened. 

Book in hand, she walks up to him, positioning herself so as to block his light. She doesn’t say anything for a minute, as he finishes working the knot loose before looking up at her with wary eyes. 

“Um, hi, MJ.”

“Hey, nerd. What you doing?”

Peter isn’t subtle as he hides the open notebook from her sight with his arm, swallowing nervously. “Nothing.” Then, at her raised eyebrow: “You know, stuff. Just... stuff.”

MJ’s eyes flick to the open books: mainly chemistry ones—alongside, bizarrely, a zoology and knitting one. “I never would have guessed,” she deadpans, looking back at Peter. 

He stares at her as she sits across from him, straddling the chair and propping up her chin on one hand. “Everyone thinks you're pretending to be OK,” MJ says bluntly. 

Peter tugs the sleeves of his flannel shirt over his fingertips, the slight movement enough for her to catch a glimpse of chemical formulas scribbled out on his notebook. She also observes his cuticles are torn to bits. 

“I'm not… pretending,” he replies haltingly. 

“You’re not OK either.” 

“I'm fine.”

Lips pursed, MJ reaches for her bag and pulls out her pencil case. Aware of Peter watching her with a puzzled frown, she takes her time pouring out a handful of pencils and pens onto the table and picking one out: multicolored with a textured grip and a cat figure topper. 

Peter takes it automatically when she hands it over, eyebrows quirking, but she notices how he immediately runs a thumb over the topper, tracing the sharp points of the ears. 

“You should keep it.”

Peter blinks at her. “What? Why?”

_Because you need something to keep you grounded in class._ MJ shrugs. “You seem like someone who will appreciate it.”

His eyes stay on her face for a long moment, forehead wrinkled. “MJ, I couldn’t—”

“I’m giving it to you. Don’t be rude.”

Peter’s eyes widen—and MJ wasn’t trying to seriously intimidate him, but, hey, whatever works. “Uh. OK?” he says hesitantly. “Thanks?”

She waves a lazy hand in the air. “I’m regifting. My stepmom doesn't have a clue what to get me, ever,” she adds, unable to hold back that expression of frustration and bitterness. 

“Maybe you need to tell her. It can be hard sometimes… knowing what people want,” Peter says in a low voice, eyes carefully focused on the pencil as he taps it nervously against he edge of the table. 

Mouth twisted to the side, MJ considers his words. “Yeah. Maybe…” she concedes. His answer has caught her totally unawares, and she doesn’t like it. “Well, I better go before anyone sees me with you. I've got a reputation to maintain.”

Peter’s eyes follows her as she rises to her feet, tossing the pencil case back in her bag. “MJ, why’d you really come over?” he asks. 

MJ shrugs her bag over one shoulder. “I told you, I had to get rid of that pencil somehow,” she replies with a faint, lopsided smile, which Peter tentatively returns.

As soon as she pushes the chair back in its place, he goes back to his books and his mysterious notebook. “Peter.” MJ feels the words bubble up to her lips. “You’re not OK right now, but you will be,” she tells him in a carefully clinical voice.

“Yeah,” Peter says simply, the shadow of a rueful smile on his face. “I know.” 

There is a weariness in his expression, an obvious pain, and she isn’t sure if it’s that he can’t or that he won’t hide it. Either alternative is distressing to her. After a panicked nod, she hurries away, taking a quick turn into one of the aisles so she can take cover behind a book shelf.

After a minute to give her racing heart time to slow down, she peeks back at Peter: his head is down, nose buried in his books again. 

MJ reaches into her bag again.  Her heart is pounding again and her knees locked as she walks back, though she only goes as far as the last book shelf rather than up to the table, keeping some distance between them.

“Hey, loser, catch!” She had forgotten to give him the matching eraser. 

Her jaw drops when Peter catches it in the air, despite the minimal warning—_and had he even looked up?_ He fumbles with it once it’s in his hand, but almost like an afterthought. 

MJ lingers long enough to see his lips curve as he realises what it is he holds, but hurries out before he can look up at her again. After all, if you get too close, people can look back. 


	4. Chapter 4

“What are you so nervous about, hm?” Tony asks in a mild tone, watching Peter ripping the paper napkin to shreds in his lap, perched on his stool like he’s about to run out. 

“This is… a really fancy restaurant,” Peter mumbles, eyes darting about the room. Tony tries to look at it through his eyes: the gold and blue lighting glinting on the hardwood, expensive leather, the floor to ceiling windows, showing a spectacular panoramic view of the city—although that had to be the last thing to impress Peter. “Alright. Fair enough.”

Then Peter adds in a squeak, words rushing out: “And Miss Potts.”

_Ah._ “Underoos, you’ve met her before,” Tony reasons in a casual, mild tone, popping an edamame bean in his mouth.

Without any paper left, Peter goes on to twist his fingers, tight enough his knuckles whiten. “Yeah, but we’ve never, like, sat down to eat before. What if she likes me for fifteen minutes, but not more than that?” 

Tony hums as he unfastens one of his cufflinks, a simple square of engraved silver. “Worst case scenario, Pepper’s always been pretty tolerant of things I like but she doesn’t.” Grin softening into a comforting smile, he shakes his head. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, kid. Now, give me your hand.” 

Peter does so with a small, worried frown—the words obviously not enough to assuage his concern—but without hesitation. 

Tony deposits the cufflink in his palm and closes Peter’s fingers, limp with surprise, around it. “Not a word.”

“Mr Stark—”

“What did I just say?” Tony nudges his glass of lemonade. “Now drink up, Pepper—” Peter straightens in his seat all of a sudden, widening eyes fixed over Tony’s shoulder. Seconds later the clip of heels on carpet and the familiar scent of her perfume reaches him, “—is here. Pepper is here—_Finally_,” he adds in jest, even as he draws her in for a quick kiss.

Pepper returns the kiss, but gives his cheek a gentle, playful slap. “_You_ can wait,” she says, pointed—but a smile tugging at the corners of her lips—before turning to Peter. “Hello, Peter, sweetheart, it’s nice to see you.”

Peter raises one hand against his chest in a shy wave, while the other holds the cufflink in a fist. “Miss Potts, hi, how are you?”

“Hungry, actually!” Pepper replies with a light laugh. “How about you?”

“I could eat,” Peter says, braving a smile.

As he stands Tony wraps an arm around his shoulders, and rests a hand on the small of Pepper’s back. “Everyone’s brought an appetite, then? Perfect.”

“The food here is excellent,” Pepper tells Peter as they head over to the dining area. “And there’s a lot to choose from, you don’t have to worry about finding something you like.”

Peter nods, a strained smile on his face that does nothing to disguise his alarm.

“We can always recommend something, if you get stuck,” Tony reassures him, squeezing his shoulder. 

“That would be good,” Peter breathes out in obvious relief. 

“Of course.” Pepper offers him a warm smile. “Between Tony and I we’ve probably tried just about everything on the menu.” 

Once they are led to their table by the maitre, Pepper gives him a quick rundown of the board meeting, giving Peter some time and space to check out the menu and decide. He grows flustered when the waiter comes back around, however, turning the cufflink in his hand over and over again. 

Pepper catches on quickly when Tony leans in to help, a hand on the back of his chair. “Actually, we’re going to need another minute, thank you,” she tells the waiter.

“Sorry,” Peter groans, flipping through the menu anxiously. “There’s just so many courses.”

“Relax, we’ll sort it out.”

It doesn’t come as a surprise when Pepper jumps in, taking charge. “First of all: any allergies?” she asks. 

Peter sits up straight, at attention. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Great. Now, what don’t you like to eat?”

“Um, cheese? Except if it’s, like, in pizza—or those mozzarella sticks from that place you order from on movie nights, Mr Stark.” 

“Those are good,” Tony agrees, relaxing back in his chair.

“What do you prefer, white or red meat?” Pepper continues, in business mode.

“I like chicken?”

“Fish is OK too.”

Peter nods at Tony’s addition. “But nothing with a… weird texture, like octopus.”

“Got it.” When the waiter returns, Pepper orders for all of them, poised and serene, without stumbling over a single foreign dish name.

“Thanks, Miss Potts,” Peter says sheepishly.

Tony can’t resist taking her hand and pressing a kiss to it, the engagement ring cool against his lips. “The fabulous Miss Potts,” he murmurs, between teasing and earnest. He knows she would prefer Peter call her Pepper, but it’s no use pushing him on that. 

Pepper shoots him a half hearted glare, even as she squeezes his hand. “It’s no trouble, Peter. Now, why don’t you tell me what you two were up to today?”

“In the lab?” Peter takes a nervous sip of his water.

“Oh, did you actually leave the lab?” she teases. “Do tell.”

Peter glances at Tony, looking uncertain. “Why not start with breakfast?” Tony suggests, and sets the conversation in motion himself, boasting theatrically: “I made pancakes—from scratch.”

Pepper grimaces, poking fun. “Oh, dear.”

“They were really good!” Peter blurts out, quick to defend Tony, all too earnest.

Pepper catches Tony's eye for a second, with the barest hint of a raised eyebrow, before Peter carries on: “Although, my aunt is kind of a terrible cook, so my standards are pretty low.”

Tony fights back laughter to gasp in mock offense. “Thanks for that, kid.” 

As Peter bursts into a fit of giggles, Tony can no longer contain his grin.

Pepper chuckles. “Pancakes for breakfast makes for a pretty good start to the day. What next?” she asks with an encouraging smile.

At that, Peter launches into a thorough account of their Saturday—gesticulative and animated, though he falters whenever the waiter approaches the table.

He practically vibrates in his seat, however, when he starts talking about working on the nanotech, and Tony thinks he might literally have to get him off the ceiling when he finds out about the Iron Spider suit.

When Peter asks Pepper if she’s familiar with molecular self-assembly, her eyes slide back to Tony with a quirked eyebrow, mischievous. “I think I might have heard something about it before somewhere…” 

Glaring, Tony makes sure to steal a prawn from her plate—he hasn’t done more than mention it. “But you would love to hear more about it, wouldn’t you?” 

Pepper clips his fork with her own when he moves in for another prawn. “Sure.”

Peter looks from one to the other, forehead wrinkled while he chews. “You’re… being sarcastic, right?” he asks, attempting a smile. 

“For the most part.” Tony cuts in before Pepper can get out a single word of her polite lie. It isn’t fair to deceive Peter, and it would cause more pain down the line, when he ended up finding out Pepper lied and is not in fact interested in in depth physics discussions. “Sorry, kid, Pepper can only take so much science talk at the table. I learned that the hard way, believe me.” 

Pepper kicks his ankle under the table, while offering Peter an apologetic grimace. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m a business major.”

“Oh, no, Miss Potts. That’s totally fine!” Peter, despite his obvious embarrassment, hurries to reassure her. Tony sometimes has trouble believing this kid is real. “I’m sorry. It’s just the nanotech is, like, _really_ cool. But I completely understand. I’ll shut up now.”

Tony gives in to the urge to reach over and give his shoulder a squeeze. “There will be no shutting up here.” 

“Definitely not. I was looking forward to this dinner in order to talk to you.” 

For a second Peter looks like a deer in headlights, then his lips twitch. “Miss Potts, the food’s not _that_ bad.”

Laughter allows the conversation to flow again, about best and worst experiences with food. For a moment, Tony feels unusually, unexpectedly, simply _content_. At peace in the company of two of his favorite people. The thought gives him pause. He’d grown fond of Peter, naturally. Sweet and brave and brilliant Peter, with all his quirks and mannerisms. But awareness of just how strong his fondness has grown only hits him in that moment. 

When Peter turns to him, round eyed as he seeks support in his defense of Thai over Chinese food, Tony accepts the fact that his little family has expanded: Rhodey, Happy, Pepper—and now Peter. 

“Absolutely, Spider-baby,” he agrees, voice coming out too soft. He catches Pepper’s start at the term of endearment, and her curious, assessing look, but rather than acknowledge it he busies himself fussing over Peter, whose dinner is being neglected in favor of the conversation. 

As they are waiting for dessert, Pepper swears under her breath all of a sudden, even as she plasters an artificial smile on her face

Following her gaze reveals an approaching familiar figure—though Tony can’t remember his name he knows his face, that unctuous grin. “Oh, joy.”

The man comes to stand between Pepper and Peter, staring down at Tony, in what must be a gesture of contempt and intimidation. “Miss Potts,” he says with a small bow. “—you look beautiful as always.” 

Pepper’s smile is glacial. “Thank you, Douglas. You never fail to let me know.” 

Douglas titters. “That would be criminal. Tony, it’s been too long.”

“Criminally long,” Tony deadpans as he reluctantly shakes his hand.

Pepper dips her head, lips pressed tight together as she holds back a snort of laughter. 

Douglas forces out a laugh of his own before looking down at Peter. “And who is this? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you even near a child before, Stark.” 

“What can I say, I’m full of surprises,” Tony says airily, trying to divert the man’s attention back to him. 

But Douglas perseveres. “No doubt. So, who are you?” he asks Peter in a patronising voice. 

Peter looks to Tony, his face transparent in its plea for guidance. Tony gives a minute shake of his head—the less anyone knows about Peter the better. 

“Um.”

“You don’t have to answer that without a lawyer present,” Tony cuts in under the guise of a joke.

Douglas snickers, clearly on to him, while Peter looks utterly lost. “I’m… nobody?” he says uncertainly, his voice coming out high. 

“Is that on your ID?” Douglas jeers.

Peter ducks his head, flushing. “No. I meant I’m… I’m just an intern.” His eyes dart back to Tony, unconsciously mirroring Tony’s small nod of approval at his answer. 

“You still have a name, don’t you?”

“Uh. Yes? Sorry.” Tony isn’t sure if he’s apologising to Douglas or him. “I’m Peter. Peter Parker,” he says in a small voice. His nervous fidgeting with the cufflink progressing to a conspicuous finger tapping on the needle of the cufflink, while clutching his napkin in a white knuckled grip with his other hand. 

Douglas studies him, blatant in his staring, so that Peter, obviously becoming aware of what he’s doing, stops abruptly. The sudden stop causes the cufflink to slip out of his grasp and fall to the floor, which only draws more attention to it. Wincing, he drops his hand to his lap.

“So what is it you do in your internship?” Douglas asks after a minute, his smile sharp and derisive. 

Tony squeezes his left hand into a fist on the table, seriously contemplating deploying the Iron Man gauntlet.  Pepper touches two fingers to his wrist in a placating gesture, though she keeps her eyes on Douglas and Peter. 

“I-I help out in the lab, observe and…” Peter stammers. “A-and take notes and…”

Douglas nods, expression disbelieving. “A-and - go out to dinner with Tony and his fiancee at a Michelin star restaurant, hm?” he says, mocking Peter’s stuttering. 

Tony’s eyes narrow dangerously, and Pepper’s fingers tighten on his wrist. “A treat, for his good work.”

“And what a treat.” Baring his teeth, Douglas turns to Peter again. “All your classmates must hate you,” he says with an unpleasant laugh. 

Obviously taken aback, Peter answers honestly. “I hope not?” 

Douglas snorts. “And however did you score such a marvelous position?”

Peter’s breath hitches, and he throws Tony a wide eyed glance. “I—I…”

“It was a headhunting situation,” Tony snaps. “I picked out Peter especially.” 

“Hm, I can see he’s quite… special,” Douglas answers in a snide tone that even Peter can’t misinterpret. 

He ducks his head, shamefaced, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Wouldn’t want him any other way,” Tony says tightly. 

Douglas sneers. “Of course.”

“Well, I _do_ hope you enjoy your meal.”

Even Douglas can’t ignore Pepper’s cutting dismissal. He gives a small bow. “A pleasure seeing you as always, Miss Potts.”

“As always,” Pepper replies dryly. 

“Tony.” He bends down and retrieves the cufflink from the floor, placing it in front of Peter. “Peter.”

Peter automatically mumbles a thank you, even though he looks mortified and upset. Tony flexes his fingers, and Pepper’s grip on his wrist tightens slightly again—she doesn’t let go until Douglas is out of sight, somewhere on the other side of the dining room. 

“The man is insufferable,” Pepper mutters, shaking her head in disapproval.

“Pete.” Tony instinctively reaches over to clasp his shoulder, but Peter squirms to avoids him, and gets on his feet instead. 

“Sorry,” he chokes out. “I’ll be, um, right back—bathroom, sorry.” Teary eyed, he hurries away on stilted legs. 

Pepper’s hand returns to Tony’s wrist, gentler now, though, rubbing soothingly with her thumb. 

Tony releases his breath in a loud sigh. “Well that sucked.”

“Douglas has always been a dick.”

“Still didn’t expect him to take it out on a teenager,” Tony answers shortly. “It’s my fault, I should have prepared him for this,” he continues in a low voice.

“Could you?” Pepper asks softly. “Would it have helped, coaching him?”

Tony studies her, curious about where her question is coming from, if she’s picked up on the same thing he has or not. “I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not.”

“He’ll be OK.” Pepper gives the waiter a polite smile as he serves their dessert. “Look, here he comes.”

“He’s been crying,” Tony says under his breath, regretful.

Peter offers them a tremulous smile as he sits down again. “Sorry. I’m back.”

“So, FYI: Douglas Manson is a jackass, kid.”

Pepper spoons a bit of candied pear, nodding. “He was close to Obadiah and we haven’t been able to budge him from the board. So we all have pretend to like each other even though we can’t stand each other, you know how it is.”

Spoon in his hand, Peter stares at them. “So you _don’t_ like him?” he asks, between troubled and relieved. 

“Gods, no.” Pepper breathes out a laugh. “He hates Tony’s guts, and keeps expecting me to dump him and get into bed with him instead.”

“The usual,” Tony remarks wryly. 

Peter stirs the pudding with a false laugh. “Right.”

Though he makes an effort through dessert, he doesn’t regain his previous animation. And to Tony’s consternation, he spends the car ride back to the compound looking out the window, looking preoccupied.

“Night cap anyone?” Tony suggests in the elevator, shrugging off his suit jacket. 

Peter clutches his winter coat closed tight against his chest as he immediately excuses himself, stumbling over the words in his haste. “—But thank you so much for dinner, Mr Stark. And it was really nice to spend more time with you, Miss Potts.” 

Pepper gives his arm a light pat and gentle squeeze as she steps out of the elevator. “Likewise, Peter. Sleep well.”

Tony lets Pepper pull him out into the hall, but he isn’t convinced: “Underoos—” He catches a glimpse of Peter, shrinking in on himself with his arms around his middle before the elevator doors close, blocking him from view. 

“He’s upset.” Tony follows Pepper into the living room, a budding headache between his eyebrows. “You’ll give that jackass a hard time at the next board meeting, won’t you?”

Pepper holds onto Tony’s shoulder for balance to toe off her heels. “I promise,” she replies with a breath of laughter. Discarding her shoes to one side, she straightens, one hand on his shoulder and the other coming up to cup his cheek. “I hadn’t quite realised, before, you know?” she says in a quiet voice. “That it was like this.”

Tony nuzzles his face into her hand, presses a kiss to her palm. “Mm?”

Pepper works loose his tie with clever fingers, presses a kiss to his jaw after unbuttoning his collar, then moves down to his shirt sleeves. They both stare at the hole on the cuff revealing the missing cufflink, before their eyes meet again. “I mean Peter.”

“It’s not a problem.” Tony shrugs, pocketing the single cufflink.

An odd look on her face, Pepper tilts her head to the side. “That was easy. I was expecting you to play stupid or deny it.”

Tony frowns. “There’s nothing wrong with it,” he says stiffly as he rolls up his sleeves.

“No, of course not,” Pepper sweeps her hair back to unclasp an earring. “But a few years ago the thought of it would have sent you running. Don’t try to deny it.”

Tony holds up a hand. “Wait up—what are you talking about?”

“You. Peter. And fatherhood, essentially.” Tony’s face goes slack, and his arms drop in surprise. “What were _you_ talking about?”

Naturally Pepper would figure it out only a step after him. “I… I think Peter’s autistic,” Tony says dumbly. 

“Oh.” Pepper considers that for a moment as she takes off the second earring. “I thought he was just a bit… awkward? Sensitive. But now that you mention it.” 

Tony reaches for her hand, feeling tense in spite of himself. “Is that a problem?” 

“Of course not,” Pepper answers, and there’s no mistaking the earnestness. She looks him straight in the eye, and the look is serious even though she grins a little. “He’s your kid no matter what.” 

A slightly hysterical laugh escapes Tony, and he returns the squeeze before bringing her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. “Yeah. I guess so,” he admits after a moment. _His kid. _

Pepper gives him a peck on the cheek. “You should go talk to him, if he’s upset,” she says softly. “I’ll wait.”

Tony doesn’t know how he got so lucky to have her. To have everything he has, he thinks, as he goes up to the sleeping quarters, and makes his way down the hall to Peter’s room. 

“No, I was stupid, Karen. Mr Stark isn’t going to invite me anywhere again.” Standing behind the closed door for a moment, Tony hears Peter arguing with the suit’s AI. He thinks maybe Peter confiding in his AI is something that should concern him, but JARVIS and FRIDAY have helped keep him sane over the years, so as far as he’s concerned it isn’t a problem. 

“Knock, knock.”

Abrupt silence follows his knock on the door, and then a rustle and light thump that can only be Peter dropping from the ceiling. “Um, you can come in?” he calls in a small voice after a minute.

Hair tousled in a telltale sign he had just hurriedly tugged off the mask, Peter sits cross legged on the bed, still dressed except for his coat and shoes. 

“Hey, kid.” Tony leaves the door ajar as he steps inside. “You ok?”

“Yeah, yeah. Fine. I’m fine. ” Peter nods, eyes widening for emphasis. But he is hopeless at disguising his emotions, and his face crumples as he continues: “I’m sorry about dinner, Mr Stark…” he whispers. 

“What are you sorry about?” Tony asks carefully as he approaches the bed. Peter tends to apologise for everything.

“I... didn't know what to do,” Peter confesses. “I was confused with that man, Douglas? I thought—And you were trying to tell me, but I couldn’t—” With an abrupt sigh, he deflates. “And now he probably thinks you hired an idiot for an intern.”

“Pete, you had no context, and I wasn't much help.” Tony sits down on the edge of the bed, and places a hand on his shoulder. “Douglas is a jerk—and an adult. I should have stepped in a lot sooner. You didn’t do anything wrong, OK?”

Tony has never been great at apologies, but that can’t be too bad if it makes Peter’s face relax into a small, tentative smile. Though it falters the next moment., chewing on his bottom lip before he adds: “What about Miss Potts, does she still like me?”

“Yeah, kid, more than ever.” He had never really entertained that there could be an issue with Pepper, but for all that there is some relief at having it confirmed. “How did you like the food anyway?” he asks, changing the subject. 

“It was really good. I especially liked that tuna fish, with that sauce? And the little green things in that other dish, you know the ones I’m talking about?” Peter replies, waving his hands around like that helps describe it. Tony notices he is still holding the cufflink to his palm with two fingers, even as he gesticulates. 

“You mean the fiddlehead greens?”

“Oh, that’s a good name! They do look like that.”

Tony chuckles fondly. “I’m glad you liked it, kid.”

Peter settles down again, fiddling with the cufflink, his hand on his knee. “I did. Though it was a bit stressful too,” he admits after a second. 

“It takes some getting used to, from what I understand,” Tony agrees. “I was raised on all that pomp and protocol, you know—I probably knew all the pieces of cutlery before I was fully potty trained.” He doesn't usually volunteer anecdotes about his childhood, and though it’s not the first time he’s opened up to Peter with some passing comment or other, it still catches him by surprise.

Peter listens, attentive, the look in his eyes soft and—there is no mistaking it—adoring. It makes a strange feeling bloom in Tony’s chest. “You had to do that for every meal?” he asks.

“Pretty much.”

Expression sympathetic, Peter edges closer to him. “When was the first time you ate a hamburger?”

“I was thirteen, I think?” Tony answers, though he is confused at the non sequitur.

“Did you eat it with your hands?” 

Tony breathes out a laugh as he realises where Peter was going with his question. “I did. I was on a date, actually—not ideal. It wasn't pretty, and the girl was not impressed.”

Peter giggles, bumping their shoulders together accidentally, and it feels almost like instinct for Tony to bring him in for a one armed hug and ruffle his hair. He keeps his arm around him when he speaks: “The fancy dining gets easier with practice, if you think you might want to try again sometime?” he says carefully.

“You want to take me out again?” Peter asks dubiously, as if he fears he's something to hide away. 

Tony gives him a squeeze. “Absolutely. If you want.”

Peter nods, fingers curling around one of Tony’s belt loops in what seems like an unconscious movement. “Yeah, that’d be nice, Mr Stark. Thank you.”

“Just for a change, every once in a while. Unless you acquire a real taste for it. In that case I’ll be taking it out of your pay check, you’ve been warned.” Tony pulls a face and shakes his head immediately after, making it obvious he’s joking.

Peter gives a quiet laugh, and hides his face against Tony’s shoulder for a moment. “Maybe we can go for burgers sometime too?” he asks shyly. 

The feeling in Tony’s chest grows stronger. “I’d like that,” he replies earnestly. “But it has to be Burger King.”

That makes Peter giggle again, and Tony finds himself pulling him in to press a kiss to the top of his head.

“Now to sleep—bed time for spider babies.”

Peter shoots him a glare, but can’t hold his smile. 

“Go brush your teeth, get out of those clothes, and go to sleep.”

“Mr Stark! I’m fifteen, not five,” Peter protests, but he’s laughing.

As he goes back down to the living room, Tony wonders at the feeling in his chest. It isn’t new, but he has a term to link to it now—fatherhood, essentially, Pepper had said. It feels right, somehow, in spite of all his fears. 

He is still in a bit of a daze when Pepper welcomes him into her arms. “Did you put the kid to bed?” she quips.

Tony releases his breath in a long exhalation, then blurts out: “What the hell, Pep?” 

The look in Pepper’s eyes is soft and knowing. “This is a good thing, Tony.”

“For me?” 

“Yes.” 

Tony nods. He has no doubt about that.“ And for him?” he asks, and his stomach knots in anticipation of her answer.

Pepper thumbs at his cheek in a soft caress. “Yes,” she says firmly. Tony holds her close as she wraps her arms around him. “You deserve to be loved. By Peter too, now.”

“I want that,” Tony sighs. 

“You have it,” she whispers. 

When he lifts his head to look at her, Pepper kisses the corner of his smile, before they both burst into quiet laughter. 

Tony knows he can’t possibly deserve all of this, but he’ll do his best to come as close as he can to it.


	5. Chapter 5

Rhodey raises one of the flaps to peer into the open cardboard box on the table. It must have been delivered when he was in the bathroom. “What are these?” he asks. He can make out an assortment of colorful items still in their plastic bags: some form of twistable tangles made out of plastic, wooden cubes, a couple of squishie little animal figures. 

“Some stim toys,” Tony answers absently, busy with the coffee machine.

“I don’t know what that means.” Rhodey paws through the contents with raised eyebrows. He pulls out a chain of interlocked plastic pieces and holds it up questioningly.

Tony saunters over, a coffee mug in each hand. “They’re fun, relaxing, can help with concentration.”

“Thanks.” Rhodey watches Tony over the rim of his coffee mug as he reaches into the box and selects a textured red stress ball. “So what brought this on?”

Using his teeth to rip open the plastic packaging, Tony shrugs. 

All of a sudden remembering the apple juice boxes in the fridge, Rhodey studies him with narrowed eyes. “Are they for the kid?” 

Tony raises an eyebrow, sipping at his coffee. “That’s ageist, Platypus.” 

Rhodey rolls his eyes. “No, I just know you. I know you have enough stress balls to fill a kiddie ball pit, but this is something else. And I know you don’t drink apple juice. So, it’s for the kid.”

“Look at that, Detective Rhodes strikes again,” Tony quips, and Rhodey knows he hit it in one. 

“Hilarious.” He leans against the counter, feeling rather satisfied with himself. “Just admit it. Admit I’m right.”

Tony folds the box closed and tucks it under his elbow. “Do you also want my marble collection?” he sniffs, though Rhodey can easily make out the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Might as well. But seriously, Tones, when am I meeting this kid?”

“When the stars align.”

“Which means?” Rhodey plays along half heartedly, balling up the plastic packaging Tony had discarded to throw it out. 

Tony drains the rest of his coffee, before giving him a look. “When we’re all free,” he deadpans. “Now move it or I won’t let you into the lab.”

In the end, it is a something of a chance meeting. Rhodey certainly isn’t expecting to find the kid in the kitchen at seven in the morning on a Saturday. 

Years in the army have conditioned him to waking up at the crack of dawn, and even after an hour at the pool—going swimming first thing in the morning a routine he had developed after Germany—it’s still early enough that he isn’t expecting anyone to be up and about, least of all a teenager. 

Tony had shown him a few pictures of Peter on his phone, and Rhodey has seen evidence of his existence around the compound—a hoodie forgotten on the couch, a pack of gummy bears with only orange ones left inside—but it’s different having him in front of him. It makes the reality of Tony and a kid actually real. 

Clearly hyper focused—Rhodey has seen this kind of concentration before in Tony—Peter doesn’t notice him at first, giving Rhodey a chance to get a good look at him, in his natural state, so to speak. Tony has mentioned the kid gets a bit anxious meeting new people, so he appreciates it. 

He sits perched on a stool at the island, a small print textbook and a bowl of cereal in front of him, feeding himself spoonfuls in too long intervals, almost missing his mouth half the time. He’s got some kind of animal cushion on his lap, and keeps an arm looped around it except when he needs to turn the page—he’s a fast reader, Rhodey notes.

After a minute, Rhodey steps into the kitchen. Peter doesn’t notice him until he is almost upon him, despite the whirring of the leg braces, audible even for the non-enhanced. 

Trance broken, he jumps, startled, with an aborted curse. 

Rhodey has to hold back laughter as the spoon goes flying. Peter catches it in the air, but appears to get stuck to it after, so that it takes him two tries before it drops onto the tabletop with a clatter. 

“Um, hi. Sorry. Sh—oot.” Blushing deeply, he bends down to grab the plush which had slipped to the floor, and sets it on a stool on the other side of the island, out of Rhodey’s line of sight.

“Should I just… go out and come back in?” Rhodey teases, handing him a couple of napkins. 

Peter winces, scrubbing at the milk that had splashed on him. “It wouldn’t make you forget this happened, would it?”

“Uh, no. But I could pretend?” Rhodey replies, laughter in his voice as he takes in the kid: his hair a mess of curls, rumpled NASA tee shirt and fleece pyjama pants with pink polka dots on them… and Iron Man socks.

Groaning, Peter hides his face in his hands. 

Rhodey claps him on the back. “Chin up. First impressions aren’t everything.”

“Don’t they always say the opposite?” Peter asks, peering at him from behind his fingers, a small line between his eyebrows. 

Rhodey considers him carefully—he seems earnest. “That was a joke…?”

Peter scrunches up his nose in obvious self reproach, and flaps his hands at Rhodey. “Yeah, of course. sorry, haha.” Swallowing thickly, he waves an arm gesturing at the kitchen. “Can I get you anything, Colonel Rhodes, sir?” 

“That’s fine, thanks. And call me Rhodey, will you?” Biting back a grin, Rhodey walks over toward the fruit. “I’m making myself a smoothie. You want one?”

“Um, no, no, thanks.” Peter tips his bowl, though the cereal has gone soggy. “I’m good, thank you.”

Rhodey hums, and decides to put in enough for two anyway. “So, you been staying over a lot?” he asks, casually as he starts selecting the fruit and cutting it up.

Peter clinks the spoon against the bowl, turned in his seat to face Rhodey. “How much is a lot?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“Um… I’ve been staying every other weekend?”

“That’s quite a bit.”

Peter’s eyes widen, and his knee starts bouncing. “Oh?” he says uncertainly.

Rhodey doesn’t want to make the kid uncomfortable, so he quickly changes the subject. “What were you reading, anyway?” he asks, pointing at the book on the table with a banana.

It works. Peter perks up instantly. “I’m doing some background reading on chemical kinetics, so I can read Kuznetsov’s newest paper.”

Rhodey blinks, having flashbacks to Tony reading up on civil engineering one night for a date. “That sounds… interesting,” he settles on finally, going back to cutting up strawberries. 

“It is!” Peter responds excitably, and launches straight into a rambling, enthusiastic talk about the subject. Rhodey nods along, only half listening—chemistry was never his strongest subject.  It’s a couple of minutes until Peter seems to remember himself, and he trails off awkwardly. “Sorry. It’s just… cool.”

Chuckling, Rhodey waves a dismissive hand. “It’s OK, Peter. Intelligence and passion are good things.” 

A small, delighted smile blooms on Peter’s face. “Thanks.”

Rhodey hesitates, then goes for it: “It reminds me of Tony, actually.”

Peter ducks his head bashfully, but his smile grows wider. “Yeah?” he asks with obvious eagerness. 

Nodding, Rhodey joins him at the island, setting a bowl of granola between them and sliding a glass of smoothie toward him. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t miss how Peter’s smile flickers even as he takes the glass. “It's good,” Rhodey assures him. “Try it.”

Peter nods and takes a tiny sip, lips pursed. “Thanks.”

“Alright, so I’ve heard about you from Tones, but why don't you tell me about yourself?”

“Uh—” Peter puts the glass down, looking lost.

“Just in general. There’s no wrong answer,” Rhodey says with a chuckle. 

“Right.” Peter nervously takes another sip, though he wrinkles his nose immediately after. “I’m… almost sixteen. I live with my aunt. I like chemistry and bioengineering…” Rhodey nods encouragingly. “And physics… And I'm... Spider-man?” he falters. 

“OK” Rhodey nods, needing a moment to think about where to go with that. He settles on teasing: “So science nerd through and through, hm?” 

Peter doesn’t seem to catch on that Rhodey is teasing, however, and only nods, matter of fact. “Though I like languages too. It’s good to be able to talk to people when I’m on patrol.”

Munching on a bit of granola, Rhodey hides his surprise. It’s thoughtful, and something that had never really crossed his mind before—jetting around the world, he’s always stuck to English. “That’s a good idea,” he says honestly. 

Peter reaches for a bit of granola. “I’m focusing on Spanish and Italian for now. I know some Filipino from my best friend, Ned, and I’ve picked up some Russian, Arabic and Chinese. But those are harder. Chinese especially.”

“So I’ve heard.” Peter’s wide eyed earnestness is throwing him for a bit of a loop. “Well, you’re already way ahead of a lot of people, including me.”

“I could download something onto Karen…” Peter muses, distractedly, tapping the spoon on his knee. “It’d have to be pretty basic, but…” 

Closer now and frantic movement contained, Rhodey notices the dark circles under his eyes. “You usually up this early?” he asks, breaking Peter’s reverie.

“Oh. Um.” Peter scrubs at his eyes, looking even more like a child. “Not on weekends, usually, no.”

“Trouble sleeping?” 

Chin lowering to his chest, Peter avoids making eye contact. “A bit, yeah.”

“Something on your mind?” Rhodey asks—easy, casual. 

Peter makes a big deal out of putting the spoon down. “Just… had a bad dream,” he admits.

Rhodey looks at him carefully, wondering how regular a thing that is. He makes a mental note to give Tony a head's up, but doesn’t insist himself. It’s not his place. “That's too bad. At least no there’s no school today, so you can take a nap, right?”

Peter glances at him with a small smile. “Yeah, but I don't like to waste any time with Mr Sta—When I'm here.” Blushing again, he busies himself stirring the straw in his smoothie.

Rhodey takes pity on him. “Hey, you don't have to drink it if you don't like it. You didn't even ask for it.”

Peter grimaces. “Sorry, it tastes good! Really! I just… really don’t like the texture of smoothies. I feel bad with Mr Stark, because he really likes smoothies too.”

Normally, his response to that would be to question and tease, and build rapport like that. But Rhodey is a strategist, and he’s picked up enough in his conversation with Peter to know that is not the way to go with him. “Fair enough,” he says instead. “You know me and Tony had never had a smoothie until we were well past forty?”

Peter looks at him with shining eyes, a smile spreading across his face. “Really?”

“Oh yeah. It took me longer to get into them than Tony, to be fair.”

“Mr Stark likes fruit a lot.” 

“He does,” Rhodey agrees. “And I’m pretty sure he tried every combination of fruit known to man when he started out.”

“Did he put vegetables in too?” Peter asks. “Because that would increase the numbers exponentially.” 

Rhodey can’t help laugh. After a lifetime of friendship with Tony, rolling with things is second nature to him, and he can definitely deal with this kid and however his brain works. “He tried everything he could think of—and you know Tony’s nothing if not thorough.” 

Peter grins, bouncing a little in his seat. “I wonder if FRIDAY still has the data.” 

Rhodey laughs again, because, actually, it would be just like Tony to keep records. “FRIDAY?” he calls. 

They chat for a while, and Peter doesn’t lose the smile on his face once as he rocks a little in his stool. He had even relaxed enough to pull the cushion, shaped like a sheep, back onto his lap as they talked after some time. 

“I should go get dressed and stuff—Mr Stark and I always work in the lab until lunch time,” he says when his phone starts vibrating with an alarm. “It was really nice to meet you, sir.” 

“You too, kid.”

Peter puts his cereal bowl in the sink, and gives him an awkward wave as he shuffles out of the kitchen, book and sheep plush in his arms.

Rhodey hears him bump into Tony in the hall. “Mr Stark!” 

“Hey, Spider-baby.” The warmth in Tony’s voice is palpable, if the endearment weren’t enough. “You’re up early.” 

While they talk, Rhodey shakes out some more granola into the bowl, and pours what’s left of the smoothie in the blender into a glass for Tony. 

“You’re up bright and early.” 

Tony has no trouble detecting the sarcasm. “I’m a creature of the night, Rhodes.”

Rhodey snorts with laughter. “Yet you’re working in the lab mornings now?”

“I can’t keep the kid up all night—apparently it’s irresponsible parenting, or something.”

He says it easily, without a second thought, and that more than anything really confirms it for Rhodey. “So they say.”

“Thanks.” Tony accepts the smoothie, taking a long sip. “Good swim?”

“Mmhm, the usual. Breakfast was interesting, though.”

Tony quirks an eyebrow. “Do tell.” But Rhodey knows that look in his eye—guarded, defensive. 

Rhodey grips his shoulder. “He’s a sweet kid. Smart as hell.”

Tony nods to both, not able to contain his smile. 

“He reminds me a bit of you, actually.”

“Sans the narcissism, and the history of war profiteering, and—” 

Rhodey punches him in the shoulder hard. “Without the crippling self esteem issues and guilt complex?”

“Oh, no, he’s got those.” Tony sighs, shaking his head. “But, honestly, Rhodey—He’s… _good_. Better.”

“He’s had someone to look up to—Don’t think I didn't notice the Iron Man socks.”

Tony shakes his head again, breathing out an incredulous chuckle, but the smile on his face—it makes Rhodey smile too. 

“He’s a Captain America fan too, go figure.”

Rhodey laughs. “I never would have guessed.”

“Pretty sure you made him a fan of yours just now too—_Mr Rhodey_.” 

“Well.” Rhodey doesn’t hold back his laughter. “It’s a step up from Colonel Rhodes, at least. We’ll get to Uncle Rhodey yet.”

“Aren’t you a riot.” Tony replies, deadpan.

“Of course I am… I’m the fun uncle.” Rhodey can’t quite make it to the end of the sentence without breaking into a grin. 

“You done?” 

Knowing he had scored a point, Rhodey grins. “Sure.” Then, after a beat: “Has he called you dad yet?”

Tony gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes, scoffing. “Funny. You know, I can count on one hand the number of times he's called me Tony.”

“Mm. He’s a bit of an odd duck,” Rhodey ventures after a beat. “Not your average fifteen year old.” 

“Did you expect any different?” Tony says with a breath of laughter. 

Rhodey can hear the undercurrent of pride, the fondness. He’s been hearing it for a while, whenever Peter came up in conversation—whenever Tony brought him up. But after meeting the kid it seems all the more tangible. 

He also thinks there may be more to Peter’s oddities, but that’s a conversation for another time maybe. 

“Damn, this makes me feel my age.” 

“Old?” Tony runs a hand through his own hair. “I think I've got more gray hairs since I met him than in the five years years before.”

Rhodey obliges with a chuckle, but shakes his head. “Not old, just… grown up, I guess,” he says thoughtfully. “‘My best friend has a kid, I'm an uncle’ grown up.” 

Tony’s response is to roll his eyes again, but a funny half smile creeps onto his face. “It just… happened,” he admits with a full body shrug. 

“I was always kind of afraid it would someday, to be honest. But not like this.” It’s only half a joke. He sure as hell wasn’t expecting Tony to adopt a quirky enhanced superhero genius teenager. 

Tony grins briefly, then sobers as he contemplates his empty glass. “I want to do right by him. Rhodey, he’s—He deserves that. Everything I can give him. More, really,” he rambles.

“The kid adores you, you know that, right? Spent about an hour with him, and it’s obvious as hell.”

“Yeah, well, the kid’s a bit of an idiot too.” Tony stands up, moving toward the sink.

Rhodey follows, claps a hand on his back. “I’m glad this is happening for you, Tones.” He gives his eyebrows a wag when Tony glances at him, expression still too vulnerable. “We should go out for lunch, celebrate.” 

Tony lets out a quiet laugh. “Cigars too?”

“You said it not me.” Rhodey snorts—He knows Tony well enough to know there is more behind the joke. And it seems apt, following the old tradition to celebrate the birth of a child. _Welcome to the family, Peter Parker,_ Rhodey thinks. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me about autistic Peter Parker and irondad on [tumblr](https://aminorupgrade.tumblr.com/)?


End file.
